


home

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Like thats it, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, natasha needs a hug and cuddles, she gets them, thats the whole thing, wandas a cutie pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 00:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18954121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Natasha comes back after a mission, tired and injured anddrained; Wanda's there.





	home

**Author's Note:**

> this super quick drabble came to me sorta out of the blue so i literally wrote this on my phone on the train from boston (my brothers graduating this weekend), so i will probably come back to edit it later - sorry for any mistakes!!

As missions go, this one was... well, it was a bit of a mess, to be perfectly honest. 

 

The defeaning explosive blasts are still ringing in her ears, she’s only just snapped her shoulder back into place (there’ll be a pretty bruise there by morning), and she had had to kill a hell of a lot more people than she’d originally planned to. 

 

(She thinks her blood-red ledger just got substantially thicker, and that knowledge sits deep in her gut like the dull blade of a butter knife, twisting further into her flesh with every breath she takes.)

 

There are a great deal of injuries she’s ignoring, she’s sure, but the serum pulsing through her veins has gotten her this far, and she’s more than game to take her chances with Death for the moment—right now, she just wants to go home. 

 

(She never thought she’d have a ‘home’—what’s more, she’s still certain she’ll wake one morning to find it all gone, because heaven knows she’s never deserved such a thing; but for now, she has a pair of blue eyes that crinkle around the edges with every smile; for now, she has warmth and the sort of affection in every interaction that Natasha was sure she’d never have, and something else, too: something that feels suspiciously like happiness.) 

 

So, she skips going to medical (she knows they won’t bother coming to look for her; they’re rather used to her bailing on them by now), and instead heads out into the city, to an apartment (safe house) she’d bought in 2001—she’d begun “living” there after Sokovia (meaning she spent maybe one weekend there every few months, but, same thing), and when Wanda voiced her internal conflict about living in Avengers Tower under Tony Stark’s admittedly obscene wealth, Natasha had offered up her safe house, saying it could be something of a ‘roommate’ situation. Wanda had readily agreed.

 

Natasha would never say it aloud, but fine—maybe it was less of an ‘acquaintances-slash-roommates’ thing now, and more of a ‘living-together-as-a-maybe-sort-of-couple’ deal; but again, plausible deniability was a wonderful excuse for bullheaded ignorance.

 

Right now, though, Natasha doesn’t really care about boundaries or making sure Wanda knows she’s emotionally unavailable (as if that’s news to _anyone_ ) or really anything else, because she’s weary, she’s bleeding, and _dammit_ , she misses Wanda. 

 

She can worry later about being human and having emotions and fighting against every last piece of her Red Room training to become at least somewhat emotionally available for her sort-of-maybe-kind-of girlfriend—right now, she just wants to see Wanda.

 

( _If Madame B. could hear me now_ , she thinks bitterly to herself as she walks the cold wet streets of New York City before forcibly pushing the thought away—she doesn’t want to think about that; not tonight.)

 

She doesn’t bother with the door of her flat, because maybe she’s tired and bruised and _drained_ , but she’s still a traumatized ex-assassin with trust issues through the roof and a tendency to solve the majority of her problems with cold-blooded murder, so she scales the side using fire escapes and window sills, carefully sliding one of many knives on her person out to deftly pry her locked window open—then, she enters, catlike and silent, instinctively straining her ears to listen in on her surroundings.

 

She hears traffic from the streets, the distant wail of an ambulance siren, rhythmic footsteps from upstairs (the middle-aged blonde lady in 4B must be doing her nightly Jazzercise routine, Natasha thinks), and the unmistakable pattern of Wanda’s steady breathing from the bedroom down the hall—safe. 

 

 _Safe_ , she tells herself. 

 

She doesn’t quite believe it. (She never does.) 

 

A minute later, she’s creeping soundlessly into the dimly-lit bedroom—it’s simply designed (Natasha had never bothered with more than the basic necessities): a king-sized bed against the wall with burgundy-red sheets starkly contrasted by a fluffy white comforter, a sleek wooden black-painted nightstand housing a rather minimalist beige-colored lamp, and a white-painted desk in the corner of the modestly-sized room. 

 

A smile tugs at Natasha’s lips in spite of herself when she spots Wanda sprawled haphazardly across the sheets on her side, the poofy white comforter pulled up to cover only her bare feet and delicate ankles as she breathes steadily into the night—after a moment, her eyelids are fluttering open to reveal bright cerulean irises and she’s shifting her head to fix Natasha with a lazy smirk.

 

“Hey,” Wanda greets, her voice rough and hoarse with sleep.

 

Natasha just hums. “How’d you know I was here?”

 

Wanda’s smirk widens. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

 

“I would, actually,” Natasha quips, cocking a brow. 

 

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you."

 

“Cute.” 

 

Wanda giggles then, and Natasha thinks it just might be the best thing she’s ever heard. 

 

“How’d it go?” she asks after a moment.

 

Natasha shrugs. 

 

Wanda’s silent in response—she knows what Natasha’s refusing to say, knows what a non-committal answer means (they’ve long since made an arrangement: Natasha doesn’t hide, and Wanda doesn’t press; it works for them).

 

“Come to bed?” she asks after a brief silence, her eyes wide and hopeful, already reaching out a pale arm towards where Natasha stands dead on her feet in the doorway.

 

Natasha can practically feel her walls crumbling at her feet, like the best kind of surrender (the only kind she’ll _ever_ accept, being in her line of work and doing the things she does)—wordlessly, she climbs onto the mattress, relishing in the feel of Wanda’s arms sliding around her waist, pulling her tight against the warm length of the other girl’s form.

 

“Missed you,” she mumbles into the crook of Wanda’s neck, tracking the girl’s steady pulse in her ear. 

 

Wanda plants a soft kiss in Natasha’s hair, soft enough that she barely even feels it—she’ll never be over the kind of fragility Wanda treats her with, even though she knows Natasha is the farthest thing from breakable; it’s soft, tender, inexplicably powerful as it settles deep in Natasha’s chest. “I missed you too, Tash.” 

 

They lay like that until morning, and Natasha does not dream about bloodied corpses or 28 ballerinas or her ledger that drips with lurid crimson; in fact, Natasha does not dream at all. 

 

It’s like a shelter, resting there with Wanda.

 

It’s like home.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked :)
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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